


Genteel Hand Stuff

by angelsaves



Category: Staged (TV 2020)
Genre: M/M, Podfic Welcome, Polyamory, Rough Sex, post-covid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: David Tennantcouldwant to top Michael Sheen. Why is Georgia laughing at him? It's perfectly plausible, even if it isn't strictly true.(He's going to get wrecked.)
Relationships: David Tennant/Georgia Moffett Tennant, Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 18
Kudos: 90





	Genteel Hand Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> betaed by the delightful mardia ~~in exchange for gluten-free pie~~ because she loves me

"—And yeah, that's why I think he'd probably make a good choice," David finishes, leaning back against the arm of the sofa.

"Oh, I see," Georgia says, nodding. "You want Michael to absolutely _demolish_ you."

"I — what? No! That's not — I told you the whole, weren't you listening? A meeting of the minds, and possibly also the mouths, and —"

"Right, right, and maybe some genteel hand stuff, I heard you, except that you left off the bit about him pounding you into next week. That's my favorite bit." She takes a bite of cake, just as if that's a normal, reasonable thing to have said to her husband.

"How — maybe I want to top him!" David says, outraged. "I could want that, couldn't I?"

"Yes, dear." Georgia licks the tines of her fork. "You could. Only you don't."

"I might! Maybe I want to — pull his hair, and —" Abruptly, he's got a bite of Georgia's cake in his mouth, and he's obliged to stop talking in order to chew and swallow, because it's delicious, and not at all because he can't think of anything else toppy to do.

She's giving him that look now, the one that says he's not fooling her in the slightest. God, he loves her. "So I'll text him, shall I?"

"Yeah, if you want," David says, as casually as he can manage. "But don't mention —"

"It'll just be all about the genteel hand stuff, don't worry," Georgia tells him, already tapping away at her mobile. After a bit, she sets it down, then sets her empty plate down next to it; David nuzzles her neck, pressing her back against the cushions, and one thing leads to another, and he forgets all about the whole Michael deal.

* * *

Apparently the whole Michael deal doesn't forget about him, though, because he's minding his own business (trying to draw another pineapple) when the doorbell rings. "I'll get it!" Georgia calls — it's still a bit of a novelty, being able to answer the door, post-lockdown — and then she says "Oh, hi, Michael! The kids and I are just on our way out," and David drops the charcoal with a clatter.

"Michael who?" he demands, standing up.

"'Michael who' indeed," says Michael Sheen, coming through the doorway into the living room. "Do you proposition many men called Michael, David?"

David nearly swallows his tongue, he looks that good to him. "Hi, Michael," he says.

"Hi, David," Michael replies. He's twinkling all over the place. "Shall we have a seat?"

"Why not?" David gestures expansively towards the sofa, and Michael settles himself comfortably into David's usual corner of the sofa. He probably knows, the wanker. Georgia probably told him.

"Join me?" Michael suggests after a moment, during which David has been, he realizes belatedly, staring at him blankly.

"Of course." David sits down too. "So, ah — how've you been?"

"I've been well, and yourself?" Michael leans forward, as if the answer is genuinely fascinating to him.

"Well, well." David tries to resist the impulse, but it just bursts out of him: "What did Georgia tell you?"

Michael laughs. "She told me not to tell you," he says in a conspiratorial murmur.

"Oh, that's just —"

"Also, I don't want to tell you." He looks smug. "I want you to tell me."

"I thought we could have a nice, sort of balanced encounter," David informs him. "Lots of communication and maybe a little tongue."

"Hmm." Now Michael is doing that thing he does, especially when he's playing a serial killer, where he looks at you like he knows everything you've ever thought, and he's not sure if he's disappointed or aroused. "Is that what you thought?"

"I've thought all sorts of things," David hedges. "Some of them twice."

"Twice, eh?" Michael scratches meditatively at the stubble on his jaw. "I don't think I want to hear about the things you've only thought of twice, David."

"Only the cream of the crop, as it were?" David shifts his weight, which Michael does not miss.

"That would be nice, yes," Michael says. He's bloody twinkling again. "I want to know the, hmm... the well-thumbed thoughts."

"The well-thumbed thoughts," David repeats. "Quite a phrase, that is."

"Or perhaps I should say, the well- _fingered_ thoughts?"

David's mouth drops open. "She _did_ tell you, that sneaky little —"

"Your lovely wife," Michael interrupts, "didn't tell me a thing." He gets to his feet and steps neatly between David's knees, looking down at him. David's tongue is suddenly about nine stone and dry as Hannah's bara brith. "She said that I should ask. Everything else was conjecture."

David stares up at Michael, who is really rather striking from this angle, jaw and nose and curly hair. "Oh," he says helplessly. "I thought she would've told you her favorite bit."

"Not that I'm not intrigued, but I'd rather hear your favorite bit, if it's all the same to you." There's a softness, a gentleness, to his voice, and it melts David's resolve like a fiery sun.

"Well, it is actually the same bit," he admits, and Michael smiles. "The part where you — I believe the way Georgia phrased it was 'pound me into next week'?"

The smile grows into a full-on grin, one that's a bit frightening, in what David has to admit is an extremely sexy way. "Why, Mr. Tennant!" Michael says, one hand to his throat. "I think that's a positively lovely idea."

"Me too," David starts to say, but it's difficult with Michael's tongue in the way, and really, he thinks the way he's arching and moaning and sticking his hands in Michael's back pockets is probably getting his point across well enough.

Michael is, as David had expected, a truly incredible kisser: teasing nibbles and thorough tongue action and tilting David's face just how he wants it. When he breaks the kiss, David tries to catch his breath. "Do you even know what you look like?" Michael asks, almost like he's talking to an invisible audience, or those birds he's so concerned with.

"Bit of a mess, I reckon," David says, smiling.

"You think you're a mess now? I've hardly started." David's still processing that when Michael winds his fingers in David's hair and pulls, startling a gasp out of him, then starts kissing David's neck. His beard feels amazing there, not to mention his lips and tongue and teeth, and David wriggles up against Michael's thigh with the pleasure of it.

"Oh, no, no, no," Michael says. He climbs off of David, tutting at him. "None of that."

"Now, hang on!" David half-sits up, touching the beard burn on his throat. "I thought —"

"That I'd let you rub off on my leg like a little tart?" Michael shakes his head sadly. "Before you've even sucked my cock? I'm surprised at you."

Relieved, David beams at him. "So that's how it is," he says, letting his accent roll thick as you please. "You just want to see me on my knees, is that it?"

Something dark and gorgeous sparks in Michael's eyes. "God, you've got no idea," he says, palming his cock through his trousers.

"How long?" David asks, sliding off the sofa to kneel on the carpet, and batting his eyelashes just because he can.

"Oh, not that long," Michael says. David mouths at the shape of his cock, rock hard through his chinos, and beckons for him to go on. "No longer than - oh, Bright Young Things."

"I'm only two years — hang on, the film?" David sits back on his heels, gobsmacked. "But — I had that mustache! It was awful!"

"It really was." Michael shrugs, _c'est la vie_. "Still, the heart wants what it wants. Are you going to unzip me already, or just sit there and get my clothes damp?"

"I can't believe you've been pining for me for the best part of two decades!" David says, thrilled with the discovery. "What luck, eh?"

"Fortunately, you've aged like a fine wine," Michael tells him, unzipping his own trousers and pulling his cock out of his briefs. "Now are you going to stop riding me about my embarrassing crush, or am I going to have to make you?"

David gives it a better look, and his eyes widen. That is a very nice cock indeed. "You're definitely going to have to make me," he says, mouth watering. "Are you sure you don't want me to go into the kids' costume box and —"

Michael pushes that lovely cock into David's mouth, his thumbs gentle on his cheeks, and David shuts up and focuses. He loves cocksucking, loves using his mouth to make someone feel good, and Michael is wonderfully responsive, groaning like David's the best he's ever had as he thrusts in, in, in. Much too soon, he slides out of David's mouth, saying, "That's enough, darling. Where does your wife hide the lube?"

"Fake book," David says. He clears his throat. "The Twilight one, over on the shelf."

"And here I'd thought you wanted to understand my performance more deeply." Michael sighs theatrically and pulls the book off the shelf. It pops open, revealing a bottle of very nice sexual lubricant and a strip of condoms. "Oh, Georgia, you are a wonder."

"She really is." David's still on his knees, he realizes. "Where d'you want me?"

"Hmmm." Michael tears off a condom, then another, and takes out the lube, then closes the book and replaces it on the shelf. "I believe the question ought to be, where do I want you first?"

David likes that. "Right, then. Where first?"

"The bedroom would be nice, but do you know, I just don't think I can wait that long. It'll have to be over the arm of the sofa," Michael decides, and David shivers happily. "Get up and get your trousers down."

He's barely got his cut-off sweats down to his ankles — no tartan undercrackers in the way — when Michael grasps his shoulders firmly and turns him around, then gives him a firm shove between the shoulder blades. "Oh, my," he says, not a complaint, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

"That's right." Michael nudges David's thighs apart; the lid of the lube clicks open, and then it's drizzling cold over David's hole, making him shudder. "Don't worry, it'll warm up soon," Michael says, amused and almost tender, and presses the tip of one blunt finger inside of him.

"God, you're —" David loses the thread of his sentence as Michael fingers him, not too gentle, with the kind of smooth power that makes him think this could go on for a long, long while.

"What am I, now?" Michael asks softly. "Do tell."

"You're — fuck!" David squirms back, trying to get Michael's fingers in him again.

"I'm not," Michael says. "Not strictly, anyway." He's just fucking playing with him, now, ghosts of touches, and it's horrible, David wants it to go on _forever_.

"You know what you are," David says. "You're a monster, just an awful awful man, would you _please_ fuck me already, I want that beautiful cock in my arse and I want it _now_ —"

"Ahhh," Michael says, drawing the sound out like he loves it, and he gives it to him: a deep, powerful stroke that David swears he can feel in his teeth. "That's all I wanted, my dear."

"Not all, surely," David says hopefully.

Michael laughs. "A start, then." He wraps his hands around David's hips and starts fucking him in earnest, hard and perfect, bending forward so his chest touches David's back. "Is this what you wanted, too?" he asks, his voice low and intense in David's ear.

"God, yes!"

"That's good," Michael says. "Because it's what I want. Into next week, you said?"

David tries to answer, but Michael bites down on his shoulder, hips driving furiously, and his cock is dripping, not getting any friction, and all that comes out is a sort of strangled ridiculous yelp.

"Yes, that's what I thought," Michael agrees, bit of a growl in his voice, and he slams into David's prostate, lighting him up from the inside like a fucking Christmas tree, and then does it again and _again_ —

"Please," David says, "Michael, God, _please_ ," not even knowing what he's asking for but wanting it very badly from Michael.

"I know." Michael kisses David's cheek and takes his cock in his hand, and before he's even stroked it, David's coming all over the place, twisting so he can kiss Michael properly. "There, there," Michael says solicitously, right against David's mouth. "That's your turn. Now's mine."

David blinks, and then Michael's hitching his hips into a better position, and if David had thought he was getting a pretty good rogering before, that's _fuck-all_ compared to this. All he can do is take it, take whatever Michael's going to give him.

"Ah, yes," Michael says at last, and he relaxes on top of David with a contented sigh, like some sort of hairy Welsh blanket. It's not unpleasant, if he's honest. "That was lovely, David."

"Yeah." David kisses whatever of Michael he can reach — seems like an elbow, he's not sure. "Want to get a snack and go upstairs for more?"

"Mmm, possibly. What sort of snacks have you got?" Michael kisses David's neck; he's smiling, David can feel it.

David contemplates this. "Uh, two carrots, I think? Bit of old feta?"

"Is it the _same_ bit of — you know, I'd rather you didn't answer that." Michael chuckles against his back. "How about a bit of a cuddle, then a takeaway, then round two?"

"I might let you put your name first, for that," David says, "Judi Dench or no Judi Dench."

"She is _not_ invited."


End file.
